


Treacherous

by SapphyreLily



Series: Cobwebbed Mirror [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, another victorian era au, based on a song yet again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 14:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8537224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: You are never supposed to meet, never supposed to come together in this way. But you are inexplicably drawn to him, despite it all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [Treacherous](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7cOqgarjuRc) by Taylor Swift

“Dance with me.”

He takes your hand, pulling you onto the dance floor, two figures in suits where the rest are one suit, one dress. He places your hand on his shoulder, taking the other in his hand, and then you are swaying to the music, stepping in beat with him subconsciously.

(Who is he?)

You realise belatedly that you are dancing the girl’s steps, and purposefully trod on his toes.

He hisses but does not draw back; instead he presses closer, lowering his head the tiny distance between you to look you in the eye. And as you stare into those cocoa-coloured eyes, framed by a silver-outlined mask, you realise who it is.

_“Semi Eita–”_

He leans even further into your space, and you can feel the heat emanating off him, can feel the puff of breath over your lips. Your faces are aligned perfectly, such that if someone jostles either of you, your lips would meet.

(The distance is so small, so miniscule, you can almost feel the blood throbbing through his lips. The slight vibrations are intoxicating and you want to move, feel it for yourself, feel how soft they are–)

“Dance with me,” he breathes, and though you would like to get him back with a snarky reply, your body betrays you with a shaky exhale.

Your cheeks are pink, your breath is short, and his eyes are _captivating–_

The song ends, and he steps away, but not before sweeping your fringe out of the edges of your mask and trailing his fingers down your cheek.

“How about another?”

Your eyes dart about, catch the twittering figures of women hiding behind their fans, busy at gossipmongering. You see your father glaring openly at you from behind the wine table, and set your lips in a tight line.

“Yes,” you tell him.

(Because what could spite your father more than openly dancing with your rival nobility at a couple’s event?)

(And not even a woman, but a _man_.)

(You will be on the rumour mill for months. It’s perfect.)

He pulls you close again, lowering his head so far that you can barely breathe for fear of being in his space, and you grow cross-eyed.

(Maybe it’s better like this. Now you can’t see how beautiful his eyes are, can’t be too affected by his nearness.)

But he keeps leaning in like gravity is drawing him to you, and the hand on your hip is tracing circles and nonsense patterns, slipping under your jacket, slowly teasing your shirt up.

You are saved by the end of the song, and bow before walking away. He is your rival, and though his hands are large and strong and capable – and so, so fascinating – you are never meant to meet except in politics.

You walk away, and push down the newly risen feelings that you get around him.

You are calm and rational, and you will not let Semi Eita get under your skin.

x.x.x.x.x

“Meet your betrothed.”

It’s Semi Eita.

“Why him?!”

(Men marrying in this age are unheard of, the county would not stand for it–)

“We are trying to repair the bridges between our families. Do as you’re told, Kenjirou.”

(But of course, the mayor is in your father’s pocket, and that means your family can get away with anything.)

You sit in the sunroom with your newly-announced betrothed, fists in your lap, stubbornness emitting from every pore. But then he leans in and traces your jaw, lifting your chin with two fingers and shifting till you are eye to eye.

You are putty in his hands, and you’re not sure if he knows it yet.

“Just so you know, it’s a political marriage. They’re not even giving us second wives, because they certainly don’t want smaller versions of us running around.”

You glare at him, any fluttery butterflies in your chest curling up and dying. “I am a model example, though I can’t say the same about you.”

The fingers on your chin tighten and he leans in, irritation in the lines at the corner of his eyes. “ _I_ am perfect. Father should have picked a decent girl for me, but instead I am chosen to bridge a century-long feud. It is an _honour_ I choose to accept, and you should, too.”

You open your mouth to argue, but then his thumb is on your lips, pressing gently, swiping slowly, as if he is savouring the sensation.

You are lost for words, your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest, and his frown never disappears, but his eyes soften.

“You would make a beautiful woman.”

Your eyes blaze and you bite down on his thumb, leaving him cursing as you exit the room.

x.x.x.x.x

“Father, why?”

“Why what?” The elder Shirabu never looks up from his desk, shuffling papers and reading them. “If this is about your betrothal–”

“Of course it is! _Semi_ Eita?”

“Kenjirou.” Your father puts the papers down, folds his hands and looks you in the eye, his demeanour serious. “Have you learned a trade?”

You splutter, but straighten, and are about to answer when he looks away.

“You are not my only son. I can sacrifice one in order to bring peace for future generations.”

He looks down at his papers, dismissing you with a flick of his hand.

“Besides, you get along with him, do you not?”

x.x.x.x.x

You fume and pout, but there is no escaping your fate. You are married the week after, in a small backyard ceremony, and are shuffled off to the small cottage they have given the two of you as a temporary marital bed.

You sit on the lone bed, still dressed in your ridiculously tight suit, and watch your husband – _husband!_ – stomp around, bemoaning the state of the cottage.

“Well,” you drawl, your voice causing him to look back at you, “At least it’s clean. They could have given us the stables.”

“I’m glad _you’re_ getting a kick out of it,” he grumbles, coming to sit next to you. “I still don’t understand why I’m going to be stuck with you for a lifetime.”

“Weren’t you the one who said it’s an _honour_ to bring an end to our feuding families?”

“Don’t talk back to me. I’m older than you.”

“Oh, yes, because you’re _so_ scary.” You snort, and squeak in a falsetto, “I'm Semi Eita, a perfect son, and the biggest asshole in the entire world.”

“What– Wait a minute– I do _not_ sound like that!” He squawks, and you laugh, leaning into his space and grinning up at him.

(Why is he still taller than you though you’re sitting down? It’s not fair.)

He seems to suck in a breath, and the smile slides off your face when you realise you are nearly nose to nose. His hair glimmers silver in the dim light, and his eyes are hooded and dark.

He exhales shakily, and brings a hand up to cup your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. You lean into the touch, lips parting, eyelids shuttering.

The gap between you closes as he draws nearer, and your eyes slide shut, only to hear him whisper, “No, I can’t do this.”

And then the warmth is leaving your side, and cool air touches the place where his hands once were.

You open your eyes to see him stripping in the corner of the room, tossing his jacket and vest over a chair, loosening his tie. Your heart aches, suddenly empty, and you whisper into the dark, “Come back.”

“I’ll take the couch.” Is what he says instead, loosening his shirt and unbuckling his cuffs, still turned away from you.

Anger rises in you, hot and red, because weren’t you supposed to be married? Even if you didn’t like him and he didn’t like you?

(But you don’t hate him. You can’t hate him.)

You stride across the room and grab his arm, push him down on the couch and sit in his lap, your faces centimetres apart again. “If,” you hiss, _“If_ you will not consummate the marriage, then tell me to my face. But we are grown men, and can share a bed without fear. Or do you have something against it?”

He leans away from you, throwing an arm over his eyes, and you are in shock, because that is the second rejection in many minutes.

“No,” he says, breaking your stunned silence. “I cannot share a bed with you.”

“Why not?” Your voice is demanding, desperate, and you want to cringe at yourself, but it feels like he has ripped your heart out of your chest, and all you can do is reel.

“Because,” he whispers, so softly that you have to lean in to hear him, “Because you are too lovely. I _want_ to ravish you, and I feel guilty for it.”

You are stumped, until fury pushes you to your feet. “Then do it. Was that not the whole point of this whole farce?”

“Do the teachings that followed us from young not haunt you?” He lifts his arm to glare at you, and you can barely see, but his cheeks are darkened. “A man and a woman, not two men or two women! Our fathers are wronging not only the county and the mayor, but the law and the doctrine of God by placing us together! I do not wish to be burned at the stake if the rest of the town finds out about this.”

“To hell with the town and the law.” You lean in and grab him by the shoulders, moving till you are nose to nose. His eyes are bright and wary, lips set firmly in a frown. “You sook me out first, at that dance. You made every first move. And now, we are legally married. If the opinion of others matters so much to you, then fine. I will not touch you unless you ask me to. But I will not allow you to sleep on the couch.”

“Swear it on your honour.” His voice is hoarse, shaky. “Swear you will not seduce me, and let me come to you in my own time.”

“I swear.” The words fall from your lips like lead, heavy on your conscience and on your heart. He immediately pushes you off of him, distancing himself and breathing deeply.

“You do things to me that I do not want to think of… Change out of that awful suit and go to bed. I will come along later.”

Your lips twist into a scowl, even as your heart shatters. “I didn’t know an average suit could offend you so much. So sorry, _Eita-sama._ ”

You turn away, and miss his tortured glance, his intake of breath over your use of his name and the sarcastic suffix.

Later, you are about to fall asleep when you feel a weight dip the bed, and a warmth at your back.

But no matter how long you try to keep awake, there is no hand covering yours, no whisper of breath in your ear.

You’re not sure if you’re more disappointed or relieved.

x.x.x.x.x

You are moved into a house of your own at the end of the street, but you barely see him, busy with your own trade. You sit down for breakfast and dinner together, but he hardly looks at you, and you feel a little more frustrated each time. He even instructed for you to sleep apart from him, and though you have slept alone for every night since you were a child, you cannot help but remember the warmth of the one night you shared, and desire it.

When you can no longer take it, you creep into his room one night, and slide under the covers next to him. His back is facing you, but you don’t care, sliding one hand over his stomach and pressing up against his back.

It is warm, and with the scent of him in your nostrils, you fall into an easy sleep.

x.x.x.x.x

_You wake up warm and drowsy, and for once, it is comfortable in your own bed. You attempt to flip over, but realise there’s something heavy draped over you, and open your eyes to see copper-tinged hair tucked against your side. The blanket rises and falls with his breathing, and the cool morning light drapes him, giving him an ephemeral quality. You can’t help but stare._

_He is so beautiful._

_And then it occurs to you:_ He should not be in my bed.

 _But as your perception grow clearer, you realise his arm is thrown across your stomach, and_ ah, that’s why I feel better. My stomach isn’t cold.

_He shifts suddenly, mumbling in dissent, nose scrunching up and arm tightening around you. Your breath catches in your throat, because he looks adorable like this, with his face relaxed in sleep._

_Against the warring in your heart, you bend forward and kiss his hair, breathing in the slight scent of him. He does not stir, so you shift, put an arm carefully around him and tug him closer to you, revelling in his closeness._

_You close your eyes, relishing the moment until he wakes up, because surely, this cannot last, and you will go your separate ways once again, back to your own beds and sleeping alone._

_Why does that thought hurt you so much?_

x.x.x.x.x

You missed work that day, because your husband did not wake you, and apparently he told the servants to go away when they tried to wake you up.

You spent half the day sleeping, tucked into his side, and he did not protest, but he didn’t say anything about it either.

So that night, after spending a few minutes in your cold, empty bed, you sneak into his again, pressing your face between his shoulder blades and falling asleep to the rhythmic beat of his heart.

This time, the servants wake him before you, and you are half-awake when he leaves, brushing your fringe from your eyes. The moment the door closes, you curl into the spot he vacated, trying to remember the shape of him.

None of the servants say anything after that, when you sneak into his bed night after night, pressing up against him, only for him to leave first in the morning.

Until one day, he is not asleep when you sneak into his room.

You pause in the doorway, watching him sitting in bed, reading. At the sight of you, he closes the book and sets it down, beckoning you over.

“You spend more time in here than in your own room.”

“Yes.” You lift your chin defiantly, and stare back at him. You hope he asks, because you have every argument ready about how sharing a bed was _not_ considered seduction.

But instead, he quirks a smile at you, and pats the bed.

“Come, share the bed with me.”

And you do. He does not touch you all that much, but runs his hands through your hair and brushes his thumbs over your face and lips, leaning in to press your foreheads together. You stare at each other for a long while, eyes tracing the planes of each other’s faces, sketching an image in your minds to memorise and preserve.

“Hello,” he finally breathes, and his cocoa eyes are nervous, brimming with uncertainty.

“Hello,” you murmur back, sliding your arms around his neck, heart jumping at his sharp intake of breath.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispers, and you smile, because surely, this is progress.

“So do it,” you dare him, half-hoping, half-fearing.

And he does.


End file.
